


Retablo

by oceansinmychest



Series: Parable [1]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Choking, F/F, Lesbian Sex, Office Sex, One Shot, Purple Prose, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Season/Series 02, Sex Toys, Shameless Smut, Smut, Spanking, Strap-Ons, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24191008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: The Governor beckons the timid mouse into her quarters. It's far from timid when they couple. The tables turn, Vera makes her demands before the waters grow rocky.
Relationships: Vera Bennett/Joan Ferguson
Series: Parable [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745950
Comments: 11
Kudos: 27





	Retablo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Colleen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colleen/gifts).



> Nearly a year ago, my friend, Colleen, asked me about a sequel to Parable while at WWCon. ... 11 months later and I finally got around to it. Thanks for your unyielding patience, mate! I hope you and your girl are doing well. :) xx
> 
> While this is an unofficial sequel, the piece can be read on its own. If you're interested, this is Parable: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13581765
> 
> Happy reading y'all!

Between disciple and apostle, the same scene gets written and rewritten. This extra shift presents itself at an opportune time. In the hallway, a shadow crosses over the Deputy Governor. She shudders from eager anticipation. In a few seconds, the metaphorical becomes physical with the Governor pressed against her.

There’s no need to drink the water, to drink the wine, seeing as how she’s already hooked.

Thanks to a malevolent hand, the CCTV dares to look away.

With her bun a little higher and a tad tighter, Vera undergoes a personal revolution. The anxiety of performing under pressure fades. The accelerated growth of Miss Ferguson’s deputy continues to impress her. In recent weeks, Vera has become harder, sharper, _stronger_.

Pressing from behind, tantalizing friction courtesy of uniform fabric arouses. Vera feels the firm outline of a bulge pressed against her ironed trousers.

“My office. Now.” A pause. ”Unless you prefer your current predicament.”  
Joan tuts.

A repressed mewl parts chapped lips. As a rather bold move, Vera arches herself against the Governor. Grinds her arse against the front of those pleated trousers.

“Ah, so you do,” Governor Ferguson muses, a slight tremor to her lips, mistaken for a half-smirk.

A wicked touch teases the hemline of Vera’s skirt as a streak of exhibitionism grows apparent. Underneath, no full-length nylons lurk, but rather, thigh highs are secured by a garter belt. Miss Ferguson opens and closes her mouth; her poker face remains intact. All Vera hears is the steady exhalation of breath.

Dread and desire churn Vera’s gut as a ball of tangled nerves. Still, she complies ‘lest she invokes the Devil’s wrath. The Deputy Governor putters through this infernal dwelling while listening to the lock click behind them. Soft and muted, a forgotten melody drifts from the radio.

Consider the office to represent a chapel or a confessional booth where the truth slithers out as vexed whispers, wanton moans, and desperate attempts to impress.

“Will you conduct a strip search, Miss Ferguson?” She inquires with a defiant cant of her waist.

At first, Vera behaves obstinately as it tickles her to do so; the punishment, she knows, will be far sweeter. This is a result of her metamorphosis. She maintains an innocuous front, faux innocence combined with a coquettish tilt of her head. Vera draws her bottom lip into her mouth, a scrape of teeth that manipulates already pliant flesh. Joan knows this from experience. After all, she has been the beneficiary of many an unchaste look.

She admires that cathedral of a woman, a reputable powerhouse who enters her stately palace.

“Enough,” Joan commands, stern and austere, while remaining tall with her sinister shadow flickering over Vera.

These days, the Governor grows testy, seemingly impatient. She unfastens the last button to her blazer to enable more fluid movement.

Adherence contains a sliver of rebellion. Though she strips off certain components to the uniform, Vera leaves on her strategic charcoal thigh-highs and her nude-colored bra which unclasps and hangs free from her chest.

Far from pure, molded to her image, Vera is very much the product of her creation.

Joan shows no mercy, curls her upper lip from questionable disdain.

The Governor commands for her devotee to wait for further instructions by her desk, situated at the liminal space past the plush throne. In her hidden locker, she procures a pair of leather gloves which fit snugly into place. She gives them a good tug for measure. Assesses the wrinkles and creases beneath the golden glow of artificial lights.

Once Vera’s palms glide across the surface of the desk, that sinful grin becomes hidden, covered up like a forgotten crime.

Sometimes, she feels that she is nothing without Joan; Vera will never know that the feeling is mutual.

In the entire tsardom, she has met her match. Her successor promises to usurp her, to grip her by the core and thwart her cool, rigid reign. This place grows rife with sex and death.

Close contact isn’t averted, but rather, encouraged. In a tale of mutual obsession, Vera pledges allegiance to this wilted, war-torn flag. A naughty deputy dares to touch herself. Leaning into it, Vera fondles her breasts. Delicately, fingertips encircle her swollen, jutting nipples. Her thumbnails flick and caress pliant flesh. Wandering fingers circle her swollen clit before trickling over the valley of her sex.

“Can I wear your crowns?” Vera asks in between heated whimpers and pants.

“No.”

How cross she could be!

Wrath within kindles akin to a growing flame having stirred the rage of a tempest. A fury's commands are expected to be followed – to be **obeyed**. That heated stare damn near scrutinizes her and places her on a slab of glass for inspection.

The zipper groans while making its unholy descent to reveal a thick, but not too thick, length.

Little Mouse takes her by the surprise, wrapping her hand around the shaft, guiding the tip towards her aching cunt. Her fingers run along the gleaming, black length. Vera rides her, grinding the shaft against her throbbing clit.

Akin to a snake choking its prey, Joan wraps around her, holding her upright with her sturdy arms. In a barbed wire embrace, the Governor takes stoic charge. To silence herself, Joan sinks her teeth into the juncture between shoulder and neck. Leaves a mark, a brand, a memento left unsaid.

Showing no mercy, she fucks her deputy. While Ferguson goes low and slow, Vera affords a sensual glance over her shoulder. Vera rocks back and forth. Her cunt hugs around that slippery thickness.

Two horrible zealots get lost in the act.

Together, they teeter along the fine line between pleasure and pain. Her strange-love touch seizes hold of Vera’s jaw with such tenderness. How easily she bruises. The pretty sight runs her mouth dry from the possessive endeavor.

Being with Joan is a religion in itself.

Unable to resist the ferocious allure, she relents. Inhales through her nose. The Governor fucks her good and proper to keep her in line. She loosens her collar.

This time, screws are screwing. She slams her hips against her.

Harder, _faster_.

The friction has them both moaning, writhing like a coiled pair of serpents, hopelessly intertwined. Despite denying herself, Joan aches to pull her closer. Skin against skin, body to body, isn’t enough to satisfy the craving.

Snarling, Ferguson jolts, arching her back and pumping her hips to meet her own needs. She takes and she takes. Gripping Vera’s sides, she pushes herself deeper inside slippery, wet heat. Friction promises gratification.

The desk, her altar, has her sinewy limbs spread at an uncomfortable angle. Joan, clad in her warped undershirt, bleats over the sacrifice. Vera, in her pining, isn't rueful, simply wanton. Feasting on the lamb exhausts all allegories. How Joan longs to go for the throat: to feel her pulse hum and sing beneath her iron grip.

“Such a loyal DepuTy,” the Governor croons.

Running off of adrenaline, she keeps going with ragged breaths taken through her nose. She sinks her teeth into the juncture where her neck connects to her shoulder. There will be no tenderness.

How many salacious, albeit tense games do they inflict?

Hoisted by her rear, the desk threatens to creak. A sudden slap jolts Vera forward. An involuntary moan slips put as she squeezes her legs shut in response. Wetness dribbles down her inner thigh.

Greedy palms seize her arse. Joan grips her ass and savors the buoyant bounce of flesh. She grabs her behind before delivering a resounding slap. For her impish insolence, Vera receives a spank.

Is this how it feels to be touched by a God?

“You’ll take it,” the Governor rasps.

For every timed smack, leather nips at bared flesh. Her skin pricks and burns, but Vera welcomes the sensation - the fire that spreads through her veins and keeps her yearning. Dutiful and subservient, Vera takes it all in. Harsher means often achieve her fabled goals, these aspirations for the greater good.

The fluid motion of her hips pushes past the pain. That pesky handprint lingers. Marks her skin for a long period of time. Come tomorrow, she’ll attempt to mask her limp, the soreness in her hips and thighs.

So, she likes it a little rough.

Again, the Governor slaps her rounded arse which reddens from sheer force. The imprint of her gloved hand glows brightly. Near delirious from the euphoric rush, Joan’s nipples peak beneath the confines of her black, black bra.

Quietly trembling, Vera pants. On her hands and knees, she pays tribute. For Joan alone, she’ll be this debased. This weak. This willing.

Inhibitions lost, Joan yanks her by the hair. She cups her pert, jiggling breasts before squeezing that pliant flesh. She rolls them in her hands and savors the weight to this pound of flesh. Instinct lures Vera’s body closer.

Let the frenzy be mistaken as an amorous endeavor. This is a homage to a living masterpiece gone mad.

With a particularly deep thrust, her hands clutch Vera’s trembling thighs.

“Vera,” the Governor whispers in a volatile hiss. “Beg for your annihilation.”

Pistoning in and out of her deputy, a few beastly snorts escape her while she surges her hips forward to pound into her without mercy. Her lips flutter against her pulse point. This unraveling accompanies a good, hard fuck.

No, she doesn’t quite beg and prefers to skirt around the subject.

Vera rebels against the grip holding her by the back of her neck. The wolf’s paw reaches around to grip her by the throat before palming at her breasts which shudder from the tenacity of their coupled thrusts. Her gloved thumb flicks over a rosy nipple which peaks in response. Soft strokes transform into a firm grip involving her forefinger as she pulls on her nipple to coax out louder mewls from her deputy.

Well, now. Perhaps Vera is nearly as depraved as herself.

“I need to see you do this to me,” Vera demands in between near breathless pants.

Fucked from behind until Vera demands to turn around, to face and confront her. Now that comes as an unexpected yet arousing surprise. The tables are a-turning despite these burning bridges that offer a taste – a glimpse – of ruin. Influence sways, her parliament vows to burn. Her thwarted throne rocks from the chaotic motion of their thrusts.

Vera takes charge and rides her for all she’s worth. She bucks and undulates her hips all whilst Joan pours profanities, the filthy, sacred, and profane, into her willing mouth. Teeth nibble at her rigid jawline which leads into a shared kiss that builds momentum.

Singing the hymns of a strangled moan, her neck is the perfect size to wrap a hand around. This is no Caravaggio portrait, there is no beheading, but it could be a Gentileschi piece with an emphasis of intimacy between women.

Though her Deputy’s on top, Joan remains in control, ever the puppeteer. The Devil assists, gloves hands coasting along her sides. Aching to feel more, she sheds her leather infamy and sets the pair atop her desk by the keyboard. Mad passion succumbs to a foolhardy risk of contamination.

Now, Joan looks up at her. A guiding hand strokes her back. Under the light, black eyes turn flaming gold.

When the sacred and profane grapple with one another, bruises act as a parting kiss driven to quivering ecstasy.

The synchronicity of their movements enables their hips to rise and fall in tandem. Rutting together, embodiments of night and day clash. They revel in depravity as a meager distraction from inner conflict and the multitude of miscommunications that vow to tear them apart.

The light, albeit constant pressure of a forearm against her neck insinuates a more debased nature.

“Go ahead,” Vera presses with the palm of Joan’s hand against her throat. “You’ve done worse.”

Hurried, frenzied movement silences the feelings buried there. Blunt, manicured nails trail across Vera’s shuddering belly. Scratches adorn her ribs. The undone and the divine has poured her golden ambition into her naïve deputy. The formidable Joan Ferguson fills her completely.

Effects of chiaroscuro slither across her face, portrayed as a skull under the prison industrial complex’s shoddy lights. Vera stares at her like she’s admiring a paragon, a lost saint, with her small palm cradling a pale cheek.

She reels the Governor in for a kiss. Takes her by surprise. Knocks the queen from the chessboard. Joan reciprocates with her own soul-crushing blows. Swollen kisses engage wicked, curved tongues and gnashing teeth. Nibbling on her lower lip, she refuses to admit the effect this has on her. She tastes like perdition. It’s never enough.

Even when finding release in the midst of hair-pulling arousal, Vera grows tense. Her flushed cheek rubs against the Governor’s forehead, past her hairline, and nudges her immaculate bun which now sprouts a few loose strands.

“I’m coming inside you,” Joan taunts, self-restraint thrown out the window with her cunt fluttering in agreement.

In the end, she uses her disciple’s willing tongue to get herself off for a second round.

“You can do better than that,” Joan chastises.

It’s a mistake to deify Joan. Yet, Vera worships at the temple between her splayed thighs. Well, call her a zealot. All enthusiasm and vigor in the aftermath.

Crouching despite the protest in her muscles, Vera sucks her off. Drags her tongue along the girth. Tastes herself and blushes furiously from the slight bitterness of her cum. Her dainty, albeit inquisitive fingers trace her lips beneath the harness.

Logic informs her that the mind plays tricks, but the heart sees the shadows forming a pair of forsaken, black wings.

**Author's Note:**

> The Chelsea Wolfe remix of Alice Glass' "Without Love" inspired this. You can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t5DTUSRamnw


End file.
